


tightly knotted to a similar string

by TheTeaIsAddictive



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Cunnilingus, EAT A DICK FRANK, F/F, Masturbation, Porn with Feelings, Prequel, but 9.5k later here we fucking are, hi if you're new here the beast's mother is an oc of mine from my current retelling, so alas no i am not shitposting with that relationship tag that IS the major relationship here, this was supposed to be a nice quick pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22639684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTeaIsAddictive/pseuds/TheTeaIsAddictive
Summary: “I’ve been waiting ten days for a chance to taste your quim again, love,” Yvonne said with the terrifying directness she sometimes had when talking about bedroom matters. “I can wait a few more hours.”Bridget felt a curl of heat between her thighs at Yvonne’s words. “You — you are a menace,” she hissed, although her mouth curved in a smile around her words. Yvonne smiled back, neat rows of teeth like pearls in their settings.She stood with a rustle of skirts, letting Yvonne’s fingers slip from hers reluctantly. “Until nightfall, sweet,” she whispered. Steadfastly ignoring her arousal, all the stronger for being separated for ten days, Bridget let the door to Yvonne’s chambers shut behind her as she stepped once more into the hustle and bustle of daily castle life.//The Yvonne/Bridget prequel. Two parts of a three-act tragedy.
Relationships: Beast's Mother/Mrs. Potts
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	tightly knotted to a similar string

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ever Just the Same](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14959331) by [TheTeaIsAddictive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTeaIsAddictive/pseuds/TheTeaIsAddictive). 



The summer before Yvonne died was bright and hot, long stretches of blue skies easing into a July of muggy, humid discomfort. Bridget had only ever half-believed in the old wives tales from her youth, but even she had to admit that the uncomfortable weather meant that most everybody in the castle was out of sorts. Francois acted more pigheaded than usual, if possible; her staff’s tempers reached boiling point with less provocation than ever; even the little princess, normally so sweet-natured, was huffy and out of sorts. 

Yvonne herself seemed more anxious and distressed than was normal during that humid week. She couldn’t settle on anything; her walled garden was too muggy, her embroidery too finicky, the staff too unruly. Bridget suggested the library only to be met with a firmly neutral face. 

“He’s . . .  _ entertaining _ again?” she asked. 

Yvonne nodded, brushing a lock of dark hair from her hot face. “He does so more than ever, now that Raoul has been sent to Court.” She dropped her gaze to her short, thin fingers. “That boy brought him happiness that Eve never did, and still he sent him away. I once thought I at least  _ understood _ him, even if I never knew him. Where’s the logic in that?” she asked Bridget helplessly.

“Oh, Miss,” Bridget said, lapsing back into Yvonne’s old title for a moment. She knelt down beside her chair, gently clasping her right hand. “I don’t know, and I don’t pretend to know,” she said quietly, massaging her thumb into the meat of Yvonne’s palm. “I wish for your sake that things were different.”

Yvonne glanced towards the door, still firmly shut. Bending over in the chair until her head was level with Bridget’s, she leaned in so that their cheeks brushed, her lips against Bridget’s ear. “And I, dear heart, wish that for your sake too,” she whispered. Tenderly, Yvonne pressed a kiss against her cheek, and Bridget let out a tiny sigh of relief as her eyes fluttered shut. Between the prince’s foul temper and the stranger in the palace, it had been almost ten days since she and Yvonne had last touched each other with affection. 

Yvonne continued to kiss her, setting a meandering path along her jawline to her earlobe, which she gently nicked with her teeth. Bridget let out another breath, drinking in Yvonne’s delicate jasmine perfume. Her eyes flew open when she felt Yvonne’s teeth scrape against the pulse point behind her ear, quickly followed by soothing wet kisses. Without thinking, she had already half-embraced the princess; her free arm was coiled around Yvonne’s waist, fingers resting on her spine. 

Reluctantly, Yvonne pulled away. Bridget didn’t need a mirror to know that while her lover appeared perfectly composed,  _ she _ was already flushed and bright-eyed just from that simple contact. 

“We should—not just now,” Yvonne murmured. “But tonight? After dark?”

“So long to wait,” Bridget grumbled quietly. “It’s the worst part of summer.”

“I’ve been waiting ten days for a chance to taste your quim again, love,” Yvonne said with the terrifying directness she sometimes had when talking about bedroom matters. “I can wait a few more hours.”

Bridget felt a curl of heat between her thighs at Yvonne’s words. “You — you are a menace,” she hissed, although her mouth curved in a smile around her words. Yvonne smiled back, neat rows of teeth like pearls in their settings. 

She stood with a rustle of skirts, letting Yvonne’s fingers slip from hers reluctantly. “Until nightfall, sweet,” she whispered. Steadfastly ignoring her arousal, all the stronger for being separated for ten days, Bridget let the door to Yvonne’s chambers shut behind her as she stepped once more into the hustle and bustle of daily castle life.

* * *

It had begun, as most things tended to, innocently enough. 

Bridget had joined the de Barbarac household as a parlour maid at the age of fourteen, caught up in the bustle of a new country, a new language, a new life. She would cry herself to sleep most nights, clutching the gold ring her mother had tied to her stays the day before she boarded the ship out of Plymouth. 

“For safekeeping,” Mam had said. “It’s real gold, Bridget, so don’t let anyone on the boat see it.” She’d tucked a lock of red-gold hair under Bridget’s cap, her well-worn face showing pensiveness, but not sadness per se. “We will most likely not meet again until the next world, duckie,” she’d said. “So take this ring, and you can pawn it if you like — but I’d rather you keep it, and use it when you find a husband.” 

“Yes, Mam,” Bridget had said. And the next day, waving goodbye to her mother and myriad siblings assembled on the docks, she had felt the ring lodged in the small of her back, hidden under her pockets and petticoats, and tried not to cry. Where exactly Mam had first procured the ring, Bridget didn’t know. Most likely it had been an old mark of favour from a previous client. 

No matter the ring’s origins, Bridget couldn’t help but feel a link to her home in England when she could see or feel it. And so, she kept it hidden on her person at all times — until one day, around six months after she had begun work, when she undressed for the evening and found that the knot of her stay laces had come undone. Bridget had patted down every inch of her clothes, poking around the floorboards, looking under her bed and bedsheets, but it was plain as day. Her mother’s ring was nowhere to be found. 

Bridget had barely paused to tie her robe over her underpinnings to preserve at least some modesty (after retying the knot of her stays across her front), before hurrying back out to retrace her steps. The day had been hot, and she remembered pausing in one of the sitting rooms to jostle her bodice and stays a little and loosen them slightly.  _ It must have fallen off there,  _ she thought. She passed silently through the house, familiar enough with the corridors by now to avoid both any family still awake, and any creaking spots in the old floor. Soon enough, she had found herself in the sitting room where she remembered pausing. 

Getting on her hands and knees, Bridget began to search underneath the couch she had been cleaning that day. It was difficult in the dim moonlight, but there was no tell-tale glint of gold. She crawled quietly to the front, lifting the edge of the carpet to see if it was there. No such luck. 

A sick ache in her stomach, Bridget moved over to look underneath the coffee table. 

“What on  _ earth _ are you doing?”

Bridget flinched at the sudden voice, banging her head into the sharp edge of the table. Gasping and swearing quietly under her breath, she shuffled outwards and scrambled to her feet as she rubbed her head. The voice, as it turned out, belonged to a girl about her age in a blue robe with long, unpinned brown hair and a questioning look on her face. 

“Miss Yvonne!” Bridget gasped, immediately dropping into a curtsy. “I — I’m sorry, Miss,” she stammered, starting steadfastly at her pale toes against the thick carpet. “It’s only — I misplaced something of mine in here earlier, something precious, and I didn’t realise until just now. I didn’t mean to — to disturb you. Or anybody.” Her heart hammered in her chest. Searching the rooms of the family’s eldest daughter could be grounds for dismissal, if they were strict; she could be easily painted as a would-be thief, and be out in the street without so much as a by-your-leave. One of the lady’s maids had been dismissed earlier that week, and all below stairs was tense as a result. 

“What is your name?” she heard Yvonne ask. 

“Bridget, Miss. Bridget Potts.”

“Your accent is . . . unusual,” she said. “Where are you from?”

“London, Miss. England. I’ve only been here for six months.” Unsure of the correct etiquette for the situation, Bridget was still staring at the carpet. She saw another pair of bare feet enter her field of vision, and she was surprised to see that Yvonne had been approaching her the whole time. 

“And what did you lose that was so precious it couldn’t wait till morning, Bridget Potts?” she asked. 

“My mother’s ring,” she said. “It’s all I really have of her, now that I’m over here.”

Yvonne bit her lower lip, clearly thinking something through. After a moment, she said “Follow me,” and walked out of the opposite door to the one Bridget had entered by. At a loss to do otherwise, she obeyed.

After leading Bridget down a short hallway Yvonne opened another door, checking behind her to ensure that the maid was still following. A moment later she ushered them both in, and Bridget realised she was in Yvonne’s bedroom. The room was smaller than she had expected, with flower-patterned paper on the walls and a light green counterpane on the bed. Bridget glanced around, unable to help her curiosity, while Yvonne procured an object from a drawer in her dresser. 

“Bridget?” she asked. “Is this the ring you were looking for?”

She turned back to face the other girl, who had a golden ring sitting on her outstretched palm. Bridget walked towards her, looking at the ring without moving to take it from her hand. 

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, this is it.” A smile broke onto her face, unbidden, and she reached out to take it. Before making contact with Yvonne, however, Bridget’s fingers froze an inch from her palm. Her eyes flickered up to Yvonne’s, and she noticed for the first time that they were an enchanting hazel colour. “May I?” she asked. 

Yvonne smiled, a nip of white teeth behind pink lips. “Of course,” she said. 

Bridget picked the ring up between her fingertips and her thumb, brushing across Yvonne’s palm. She loosened her thin robe, threading the ring onto her stays and firmly double knotting both around and underneath the ring. “I can’t thank you enough, Miss,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost this – it won’t happen again.”

“That’s alright,” Yvonne grinned. “I’m always forgetting everything, too.”

Bridget realised abruptly that they were still standing close enough to touch. Feeling suddenly exposed in her underpinnings (although she could tell from her silhouette that Yvonne was only wearing a shift under the robe), she pulled her own robe across her body and tied loosely. 

“Well, thank you again,” she said, half-curtseying. “I should – I should go.” She turned towards the door, hoping that this escapade wouldn’t reflect badly on her conduct in the morning.

“It was nice to meet you, Bridget Potts,” Yvonne carefully sounded out her name. “It’s been a while since I’ve talked with anyone my own age.”

Bridget paused with her hand on the doorknob, turning back to face her. “How long?” she asked. 

“I –” For the first time, Yvonne looked stricken. “You know,” she said quietly, “I don’t think I’ve  _ ever _ spoken to someone my age. I have no siblings, and all the nearest families have children who are all much older than I am.”

“No classmates?” Bridget asked, shocked herself. She couldn’t imagine what growing up without other children would be like, not when she’d had a gaggle of siblings and neighbours’ children to play with. “No – no lady’s maids?”

“A private governess,” she said. “And no. I was never old enough to need a lady’s maid until now, and the first one we tried – I felt so horrible, dismissing her, but she frightened me so, and Maman told me that a lady’s maid should be a companion for life.”

If it were any other girl, Bridget would have dismissed the excuse as that of a spoiled child. However, she could see that the tears welling up in Yvonne’s hazel eyes were genuine. Quite suddenly, Bridget was struck by the idea that perhaps she was not the only dreadfully lonely fifteen-year-old in the house. 

“There, there,” she said, moving back towards Yvonne and gently clasping her hands. “Things will turn out alright in the end, you’ll see.”

Yvonne smiled a little, and the movement was enough to send two tear tracks down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said. “I suppose I should go to bed – and let you do the same,” she added. 

“I – yes,” Bridget said, now strangely reluctant to leave. “If you need anything, Miss – even someone to talk to – I’d be happy to help.”

Yvonne nodded. “I’d like that.” She spun a lock of her long hair around her finger. “You wouldn’t happen to know any good lady’s maids looking for a station, would you?” she chuckled sarcastically. “I don’t need much – just someone who knows how to dress, and style hair, and doesn’t naturally intimidate people.”

Bridget laughed, although her heart raced beneath her chemise. “Now that you mention it . . .” She opened her palms out in a self-declaring gesture. “I have five years’ experience doing all those things. I had hoped to work my way up to lady’s maid eventually, so my mother made me practice for years before I left home. Of course, I would never presume anything,” she said, “but you know where I am.” She laughed again, only half-serious – after all, there was no chance that a parlour maid could jump rank after six months and one midnight conversation. 

“Yes,” Yvonne said thoughtfully. “I do.”

* * *

Four years passed. After the shock of being approached by the housekeeper a few days later and given an interview just as short and brusque as her original had been, Bridget quickly settled into her new life as a lady’s maid and close friend of Yvonne de Barbarac. 

Yvonne had been right when she had said she was lonely. Bridget remembered her first impression of her as being silent and aloof, perhaps even a little shy – she had certainly seen little enough of her before the night she lost her mother’s ring. To her surprise, Yvonne’s merry chatter tended to fill their days. Even though she was still as quiet and thoughtful as she appeared to be, the relief of having a companion of her own age made their time together much merrier than Bridget had at first expected. 

However, as they grew into their later teens, Bridget began to catch herself staring at Yvonne for long stretches. Sometimes it was to admire how capable her hands were as she pulled up weeds in her own small corner of the garden allotted to her – a privilege she had eked out from her parents over the course of many years. Sometimes it was to note how gently the ends of her dark hair curled at the nape of her neck when she was embroidering. Sometimes it was to see her collarbone before her kerchief was tied over for modesty, and know that nobody else had seen her like this. Sometimes it was to meet her hazel eyes late at night, in a conversational lull, and notice how bright they shone in the candlelight. 

She sometimes saw Yvonne looking at her as well, although she wasn’t quite sure what  _ she _ saw. Pretty enough red hair, but straight as a board and always pinned under a cap. Thick, strong fingers – good for hard work, but nowhere near as elegant and fine as Yvonne’s. Long arms and legs; she was three inches taller than her (“Seven and a half centimetres! You English fools!” Yvonne would laugh). And, she suspected, Yvonne looked at her own muddy brown eyes while they whispered by candlelight. 

It was quite likely that the two of them would have existed in that strange limbo, and would have grown together more naturally, had things not occurred which forced their hands. Yvonne had only just turned eighteen – she hadn’t even attended a debutante’s ball yet – when one day, after returning home from an afternoon embroidering with the queen and her ladies-in-waiting, her father received a letter bearing the royal seal. It was later that night, while Bridget brushed out Yvonne’s hair, that her mother came into her room to break the news. 

“Good evening, mother,” Yvonne said, twirling the ends of her hair between her fingers as Bridget finished brushing out another section. It shone with a deep lustre, and Bridget tried to look unobtrusive as she began to braid it ready for bed. She usually tied them off with yellow ribbons which Yvonne said looked like sunshine, and Bridget thought looked like buttercups. 

“Good evening, Yvonne,” her mother said, placing a hand lamp down on the vanity desk. “I have good news for you, child.”

“Oh?” 

Madame de Barbarac spared a pointed glance towards Bridget, without looking at her face. “You may leave,” she said. 

Bridget dropped Yvonne’s half-plaited hair instantly, replacing the ribbon on Yvonne’s vanity drawer. Without the tension of Bridget’s hands her hair collapsed back into loose waves, and Yvonne scooped it to join the rest of her hair over her right shoulder. “Mother, she was in the middle of undressing me for bed,” she protested in a low voice. 

“I must speak with you in private,” her mother said. “This is a conversation for mothers and daughters alone.”

Bridget, already halfway towards the door, scurried towards it at those words and closed it behind her with a soft click. She took three steps away from the jamb and into the now black hallway, in case Madame de Barbarac felt distrustful enough to check for shadows in the gap above the floor. At this distance, she would not be able to hear what was said unless one or both of them shouted, but Bridget was canny enough to know that they would not. Instead, she slipped along to one of the windows that overlooked the garden – currently covered by heavy drapes, and which also had a window seat. In a matter of moments Bridget was perched on the window seat, her feet tucked away and the drapes repositioned so that no untowards flutter of movement could give her location away. Despite the darkness of the hall, a bright and full moon shone down over the garden, and Bridget could see every freckle on her hands as clearly as if it was morning. 

She sat there for about half an hour, trying not to shiver as the cool night air leeched her body heat through the window pane. When Bridget finally heard the sound of a door opening, she almost leapt out of her skin – the house had been silent, far removed as she was from the last busyness of kitchen cleaning and preparation for tomorrow, and if it hadn’t been so cold she could almost have fallen asleep. 

“That’s the end of it,” she could just hear Madam de Barbarac say. “Yvonne, this is an exciting time. You’re a woman now, and it is time to act like one.”

There was a pause. Bridget could just hear Yvonne’s muted voice, although she could not make out what exactly she was saying. 

“Are you certain?” Madam de Barbarac said. “I’m sure there will be many servants there.”

Yvonne said something in reply, although Bridget still couldn’t hear the words. 

“Very well,” her mother said. “You may tell her in the morning, and get her to begin packing.”

Bridget felt dread settle like a hot stone in the pit of her stomach. In the corner of her mind, she heard the door to Yvonne’s bedroom shut, and the soft tapping of her mother’s shoes as she made her way back to her own bedchambers. The rest of her was concerned with the half-overheard conversation – what had Yvonne been told? Why would she have to act like a woman now? Where was Yvonne going, that there would be a great deal of servants? Was she, Bridget, being sent away? Were they going to be separated?

Although Bridget could feel her heart hammering away inside her chest, she forced herself to stay in her position on the window seat until all footsteps had faded away. To be safe, she counted to one hundred beats before gingerly parting the drapes with the fingers of one hand. All was silent in the house. After staying in the same position for so long, Bridget’s joints were stiff and protesting as she stood back on her own two feet again, but she ignored the dull ache of her body. As silently as she could, she padded over to Yvonne’s door. Rays of light still spilled over the gap above the floor, but Bridget was more concerned at the sound of broken-hearted sobbing coming from within. 

She rapped against the door lightly with the knuckles of her first two fingers. “Miss,” she hissed. “Miss Yvonne? It’s me – is everything alright?”

The crying stopped as soon as Bridget knocked. She heard a scuffling sound, the soft thud of footsteps approaching, and then Yvonne opened the door. Her nose and eyes were bright red, tears still tracking on her cheeks, and when she saw Bridget’s face she let out another slew of tears. 

“Oh – oh, Bridget, it’s horrible – come inside, quickly,” she said between sobs. 

Bridget slunk past her, moving towards the bed as Yvonne locked the door behind her. She perched on the edge, one ankle crossed under her other knee and hands twisting in her apron. 

“Miss,” she said, “I heard – I heard a little of what your mother said, when she opened the door, but I don’t know what’s happened? What did she say to upset you so? Are you – am I being dismissed?”

Yvonne hiccoughed as she mirrored Bridget’s position on the bed, their knees pressed together between the layers of Bridget’s uniform and Yvonne’s dressing gown and nightdress. “No, thank goodness,” she said. “I don’t know how I’d bear it if you left me now.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, looking down at her hands which lay limply on her knee. 

Bridget took them in her own hands, big and freckled and frozen as they were. “Then what is it, Miss?” she asked. 

“When I went to Court, to embroider with the Queen,” she said dully, “I was observed by her youngest son. He has just sent a letter to my father requesting my hand. Apparently –” She broke off, her shoulders shaking, but no sound came out. 

Bridget shuffled along the bed, rucking her skirts up so that she could press against Yvonne’s side and wrap her close in her arms. With one arm curved around her shaking shoulders, and the other hand stroking the side of her head, Bridget simply held Yvonne close. It was all she could think to do – more than she had ever dared do in the past – but it seemed to help. After a few long minutes, Yvonne stopped shaking, and she lifted her head to look at Bridget. Her eyes were still bright, although Bridget could tell that she would cry no more tears tonight. She lowered her hand to wick away the last drop which was still slinging vainly to Yvonne’s lashes with her thumb. Yvonne’s lips parted with a soft gasp as she did so, and suddenly the closeness between them had never seemed more treacherous.

Her hand was still frozen in mid-air, the pad of her thumb on Yvonne’s cheekbone. At a loss to do something –  _ anything _ other than keep it there, with Yvonne looking at her like  _ that, _ when they were in such a place, at such a time, as Yvonne’s bedroom after dark – Bridget hooked a fallen lock of brown hair around her thumb and tucked it back into place behind Yvonne’s ear. As she did so, Yvonne rested her head on Bridget’s shoulder. She felt a hand snake around her waist and rest on the curve of her hip, and she tried to keep breathing steadily. She started to stroke Yvonne’s hair again. 

“Apparently,” Yvonne repeated, “he took one look at me and decided he must have me for his bride.”

“Which one is the youngest?” Bridget murmured.

“Francois,” she said with a small shudder. “He’s already going grey.”

Bridget couldn’t suppress a revulsion of horror. “But – you’re not even twenty yet!” she said helplessly. 

“That’s what I said to Mother.” Yvonne sighed. “But apparently the prince wants to be married at the first convenience.”

The girls were silent for another long moment. “So . . . shall I have to seek new employment?” Bridget asked, her voice breaking partway through the sentence. 

Yvonne sat upright again, raising her other hand to cup Bridget’s cheek. “No, no, dear Bridget – I told Mother that I couldn’t leave this house without you, and she could think of no reason why the prince would object. I do not mean to be parted from you willingly, my dear.” Her hand was warm against Bridget’s cheek, and she closed her eyes at the contact. 

“Unless . . .”

Bridget’s eyes snapped open. “Unless?” she echoed. 

Yvonne’s face was the picture of misery. “Unless, of course, you do not wish to come with me –- which I can understand, dear one, for it will be another upheaval in your life and an entirely new household and situation – and in truth it will break my heart if you don’t, but you are under no obligation to –”

“Yvonne.”

She stopped talking mid-sentence. Never, in the four years they had known each other, had Bridget addressed her as anything less formal than ‘Miss’. Her eyes, more green than brown in the candlelight, grew wide. Bridget could feel her heart pounding – could half-convince herself that she could hear Yvonne’s heart pounding as well. 

“It would break my heart to part from you as well,” she said, her voice quavering. “But why – why are you calling me  _ dear?  _ Why now?”

Yvonne tilted her head to one side. “I think you know why,” she said. She was leaning into her, Bridget suddenly noticed, their faces drawing ever steadily closer together. “Tell me that I’m not wrong – that you haven’t looked at me, when you think I’m not looking? When others aren’t around?” She licked her lips, and Bridget’s eyes were caught flicking down to the pink tip of her tongue, disappearing into her mouth. “Tell me you haven’t noticed me looking back at you?” she whispered. 

“What is there to look at?” Bridget whispered. 

Yvonne lifted her hand from Bridget’s cheek and pulled her cap off her head. Her hair was still tightly pinned against her head, but Yvonne managed to pull one strand away and wind it around her finger. “Your beautiful hair,” she whispered back. “Your hands. Your eyes. I could talk all night about why I like looking at you”

“Stop it,” Bridget squirmed, blushing. They were so close now that she could feel Yvonne’s breath against her cheek. 

“Make me,” Yvonne smiled, something glinting dark and lustrous in her eyes. 

With a sudden burst of bravado, Bridget leant the rest of the way down and captured Yvonne’s lips in a kiss. Her arms pressed Yvonne’s body to her, winding around her waist and holding the back of her head in place. For one breathless moment, it was as if the two of them were frozen in time. And then an indescribable instant later, Yvonne moved within Bridget’s arms and she kissed her back. Their mouths moved against each other, and when Yvonne slipped her tongue between Bridget’s lips she welcomed the intrusion. She was all warm body and soft hair, her lips wonderfully giving and her hands increasingly taking, roaming up and down and across Bridget’s shoulders, her neck, her spine. 

Bridget broke away to catch her breath, pressing wet kisses down Yvonne’s neck while tangling her hands in her hair. She could feel the heat of her body under her nightdress, and she ran her hands up and down her back and sides as Yvonne tried to unpin Bridget’s hair. When she had successfully loosened enough of Bridget’s hair that the rest came tumbling down, she ran her hands through the bright red mane. 

“Beautiful – beautiful –” she gasped. She moved so that she was perched on Bridget’s thigh, one leg hooking around her waist as she bent and claimed Bridget’s mouth again. She kept running her hands through Bridget’s hair, while Bridget herself had one hand clamped on Yvonne’s thigh and the other anchored securely around her back. Bridget could feel the evidence of her own arousal, hot and sticky against her inner thighs as it leaked out. However the urge to lower her hand and relieve the tension, or at least have something to rut against, was nothing compared to her desire for Yvonne to keep making the soft sounds she was making against her lips.

“Yvonne,” she moaned, pulling her body even closer as she began kissing down the long arch of Yvonne’s neck. Her fingers bunched in Yvonne’s robe and shift when she heard her breath hitch as Bridget scraped her teeth over her voicebox. Her other hand inched further up Yvonne’s thigh, desperate to see how else Yvonne would react to her – to  _ her _ , to the things that  _ Bridget _ was doing – and it was entirely likely that they would have consummated their relationship at that very moment, in Yvonne’s childhood bedroom. 

However, both girls froze when they heard a loud clatter coming from the direction of Yvonne’s window. Bridget relaxed a second later when she heard a familiar yowling, releasing her death grip on Yvonne’s thigh. 

“It’s just the cat,” she whispered. “Silly thing couldn’t catch a mouse to save her life, but she likes to try and stalk the rooftop for birds anyway.”

Yvonne relaxed as well, ducking her head for a moment in relief before meeting Bridget’s gaze once again. With her arms wrapped loosely around Bridget’s neck, she began idly brushing the small hairs on the back of her neck with her thumb. Bridget shifted her other hand from Yvonne’s thigh to her waist, her hunger momentarily forgotten by the racket the cat had made. She leaned in, resting her forehead against Yvonne’s. Neither girl moved to close the gap between their mouths, and for a moment they sat in a quiet embrace. 

“So – so you  _ will _ come?” Yvonne asked. 

Bridget leaned back, the lewd joke she had been about to make silenced in her throat by the earnestness in Yvonne’s eyes. 

“Yes,” she said, lifting a hand to tuck Yvonne’s unbraided hair behind her ear. “I promise. I won’t be separated from you, Miss, not by any mortal power.”

Yvonne smiled, and Bridget felt she was the richest woman in the world. 

“Good,” she said. “Neither will I be parted from you.”

Bridget leaned in to kiss her again, and although it lacked the frantic passion of their first kisses it still caused her heart to beat wildly. When she broke away Yvonne was smiling, and pulled her down to the bed, onto her back and into another kiss. 

“I should . . . I should go back,” Bridget gasped some time later. 

Yvonne made a ‘Hmm?” sound into Bridget’s neck, punctuating the noise with a squeeze of her still-clothed breast and a slow rut of their interlocked legs. 

Bridget made a small choked noise, grinding up against the thigh Yvonne had pressed against her despite herself. “I’ll be missed,” she said. “They’ll notice I’ve been gone if I’m away much longer.”

Yvonne groaned, but still propped herself up on her elbows, her lips stung red with kisses and her pupils dark and wide. Bridget, sure that she didn’t look much different, began to sit up. Yvonne shuffled back to make room for her, and stayed perched on the bed as Bridget stood upright again. She tucked her long red hair back under her cap, abandoned on the floor from when Yvonne had pulled it off, without bothering to look for the hairpins. 

“I don’t know when the wedding will be, precisely,” Yvonne said as Bridget tucked her stray ends under the cap, “but I’ll ‘officially’ tell you tomorrow, and then I suppose we’ll both start packing.”

Bridget nodded, careful not to dislodge her cap. “It won’t take long. I don’t have much that’s precious to me.”

Yvonne smiled, a little melancholy creeping in as well. “I suspect that the prince won’t want to wait long, either.”

Bridget crossed back over to the bed, cradling Yvonne’s face in her hands. “Yvonne,” she whispered. “I will be with you when we leave. I promise.” She bent down to give her a final kiss, and when she broke away the sadness had left Yvonne’s eyes completely. 

“Until tomorrow?” she asked. 

“Until then, Miss,” Bridget said as she left the room, the door quietly clicking shut behind her. She hurried back across the house, making her way back to her bunk with little comment – it wasn’t uncommon for Bridget to stay late just talking with Yvonne, and so the hour of her return inspired no suspicion tonight from the other staff. 

Once safely in her bunk with the candles blown out, undressed and with her hair loose, Bridget shifted her hand between her legs. The weight of her blankets meant that the movements of her hand would be largely unobserved, and Bridget let her eyes flutter shut in the temporary security the night offered her, already slick and worked up from Yvonne’s earlier actions. Grasping the bedsheet with her free hand, Bridget could half-imagine that she was holding Yvonne’s shift once again, and that it was  _ her _ fingers that were rubbing against her bud instead of her own. With her eyes screwed shut and the memory of their embrace still emblazoned on her mind, she could almost feel Yvonne’s hands and mouth against her skin. As she sped up the motion of her fingers, the phantom Yvonne grinned wolfishly over her as she had before, pressing kisses against her neck and breasts. Hardly two minutes passed before Bridget pressed her face against her pillow to stifle any moans as she shuddered in climax against her own hand. 

When she had finally finished, she turned her head to gulp in lungfuls of the room’s cool air. As her heart rate began to settle back down, Bridget shifted until she was more comfortable on the hard mattress – a far cry from the soft bed she had been kissing Yvonne on not half an hour ago. A tiny smile crept over her face as she drifted off to sleep, remembering how it had felt kissing her.

* * *

“No! No, you  _ can’t _ go again!”

“Genevieve, I am returning to court within the hour, regardless of your feelings on the matter.”

“But Papa, I’ve hardly seen you!”

Bridget stood awkwardly in the hallway, a few feet from the library doors. She had been about to call the master and alert him that the carriage was ready and waiting, but now found herself arrested by the young princess’s distress. If Francois found her he’d call her a nosey eavesdropper, but Bridget was more concerned with Eve’s emotional state; his usual routine of a strict midday departure was not something Bridget felt was more important than the young princess.

“I’ve been here at this chateau since May. I’ve seen plenty of you, and I am well satisfied with how you’ve progressed in your development.”

“But  _ I _ haven’t seen  _ you!” _

“It’s beyond time that I saw your brother again. You have your mother and all the servants here. Now kiss me goodbye, and that’ll be the end of it.” Francois’ voice, which was always cold, now turned dry and flat. 

“No!” 

Bridget could hear a small thud, as if Eve had stamped her foot on the ground in anger. It was unlike the girl to lose her temper, but in such a situation Bridget could hardly blame her. 

“You  _ always _ spend more time with Raoul than me!” she cried. “And when you’re here, you spend all your time with these strange women instead of Maman, or  _ me, _ and it’s  _ not fai—” _

A sharp crack rang through the hallway, interrupting her mid-sentence. The air grew thick and heavy, made more so because of the silence that was pouring out of the library. Bridget’s hand flew to her mouth, holding in the cry of rage and indignation that had almost burst out. 

“Never,” Francois said with loaded precision, “raise your voice to me again. It’s not polite, Genevieve.”

The doors burst open, and Francois stalked out of the library slowly. Bridget turned back quickly, making as if she had been fiddling with the curtains the whole time and had heard nothing.

“Well?” he asked. “Come on, girl. Kiss my cheek and then we’ll leave it in the past.”

Bridget risked a sideways glance at them as she straightened the curtains out. Eve had followed her father, one cheek bright scarlet. Her eyes were stubbornly fixed to the floor. “Goodbye, Papa,” she said flatly. 

Bridget turned her eyes back to the drapes, although her attention was still firmly fixed on the prince and his daughter. After another moment, dripping in heavy silence, Francois stepped away. 

“Mrs Potts,” he said sharply. 

Bridget turned to face them, dropping into a curtsey. “Yes, Master?” she asked. 

Francois shot another look at Eve, who was still looking at the floor. He straightened his cuffs and adjusted his lapels minutely, his steel-grey eyes never leaving the back of her head. “Escort my daughter to her rooms. And tell Mr Cogsworth that my items will need collected from my quarters.”

“He’s already made everything ready for your departure, Master,” she said. “Your carriage has been loaded and the horses harnessed.”

“Very good,” he said. “Inform him that I’m leaving, then – I take it Mademoiselle Viliers is already in the carriage?”

“Yes, Master,” Bridget said. 

“Good, good,” Francois said. He took Eve loosely by her shoulders, spinning her around so that her body was facing him. Although Bridget kept her eyes downcast out of training and habit, she could see an odd look cross his face. He lifted one hand to place it gently against his daughter’s cheek. 

She noticed when Eve raised her head to look her father in the eye. Francois’ features softened, and for a moment Bridget wondered if he might embrace the girl fully. 

“It’s the oddest thing,” he said quietly. “You have my colouring and my bones etched into your face. And yet there’s a little something about the set of your jaw, and the way you hold yourself, which is entirely your mother.”

Eve said nothing. Her arms remained limp at her sides, and after another beat Francois stood back. 

“Make sure she behaves as is fitting,” he said to Bridget. “Be a good child, Genevieve, and in the spring I will bring you a gift. Run along, now.”

Dismissed, Eve turned and took Bridget’s hand. Bridget hurried along the corridor, her hard heels tapping out an even rhythm on the floor as Eve stuttered behind her. Neither of them turned back to look at Francois. 

After they had turned the corner, Bridget knelt down in front of Eve. The poor girl was crying silent tears, and Bridget pulled her close into an embrace. “There, there,” she murmured as Eve’s small body continued shaking with the force of her tears. “He’s leaving as we speak. It’ll be alright.”

Eve took one breath, and then another. She pulled away from Bridget, and she noticed with a sharp pang that the girl had already grown half an inch in the months that Francois had been here. “He shouldn’t be  _ allowed _ to do this,” she whispered. “It’s not  _ fair.” _

“I know, sweetheart,” Bridget murmured. “I know. Come, now,” she said. “Let’s go see your Maman, hmm? You can talk about it with her.”

Eve paled and shrunk away. “No,” she said. “No, I – I don’t want to. It’ll upset her more.”

Bridget sighed. “She’s not – she won’t be upset by talking about it, dear. Your father has been coming and going like this since you were born.”

Eve shook her head. “It’s not  _ that,” _ she said, in that dry and acerbic manner she sometimes had when you weren’t grasping what she thought was obvious. “I don’t care about him coming and going,” she said, even as tears welled up again. “I just don’t want him to slap me again.”

Bridget pulled Eve close again as she sobbed quietly into her shoulder. “I’m sorry, dearie,” she whispered. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“It’s not your fault,” Eve whispered. “I was talking back to him. I shouldn’t have –”

_ “No,” _ Bridget said, pushing Eve away slightly so that she could look the girl in the eyes. “Don’t you  _ dare _ finish that sentence, Miss. It is  _ not _ your fault that your father chose to interpret disciplining a child as hitting them.”

“I –”

“Listen to me, Miss,” Bridget said, lifting Eve’s chin with the crook of one finger so they were eye to eye. “I know what the law says, and I know what your father says. But I’ve known too many girls your age who weren’t told what my Mam told me, so I’m telling you now. It is  _ not _ right. You understand?”

After a moment Eve nodded, loose strands of hair slipping into her face. 

“Good girl,” Bridget said. “He’s never – he hasn’t slapped you before now, has he?”

“No,” Eve said. 

“Good, good,” Bridget said, running her hands over Eve’s arms soothingly. She rose to her feet again, waiting for Eve to take her hand before walking back to her rooms.

* * *

Night, eventually, fell. Bridget had been kept busy the rest of the day. Aside from popping her head around Yvonne’s door to suggest that she visit her daughter, she had been completely swept off her feet with the demands of management. Cogsworth had been in a foul temper, as he always was after dealing with the Master; not helped by Lumière, their new maître d’, needling him until Bridget had separated them. The housemaids were all in a tizzy because of some petty dramatics between them and Mademoiselle Viliers’ maids, with one little chambermaid reduced to tears as a result. Bridget had spent the better part of an hour sorting out that mess, by which time meals were being served for Eve and Yvonne downstairs and fires banked in their chambers. 

Bridget settled in her chair with a heavy thud. Instantly she felt her feet tingle slightly in relief, and she flexed them rhythmically beneath her skirts; her toes, then the arch of her foot, extending to a circular motion with her ankles. 

“Peace at last,” Cogsworth said, shutting the door behind him. As butler and housekeeper, they were afforded the privilege of eating together, apart from the other staff. 

Bridget sighed. “I’m always thankful to see the back of him,” she said in English, “but he doesn’t half make a ruckus as he goes.”

Cogsworth hummed apathetically as he cut his meat. 

“Oh, don’t give me that,” she said as she began her own meal. “What was that all about this afternoon, with the wine glasses? He puts everyone here out of sorts, so don’t go excluding yourself from that category.”

He had the decency to flush, which Bridget noted with satisfaction. “Will that be him until the spring, then?” he said, politely dodging the topic. 

“So he said to the little princess, although god knows whether half the things he promises her are true or not,” she said. She took a sip of her wine. “Poor creature, she just dotes on him; it’s not her fault she was born a girl.”

“I’m sure the Master cares for her,” Cogsworth said. 

“Yes, in his own way,” she agreed darkly. She looked up from her wine to see Cogsworth glaring at her. “Oh, for god’s sake,” she muttered, “the man is gone back to court, Henry! We are speaking in English, and you  _ know _ that nobody else here can stand him either, so you are free to speak your bloody mind now! It is perfectly safe!”

Cogsworth relaxed an infinitesimal amount around his shoulders, and muttered something which might have been “Fucking bastard of a man.”

“You see?” Bridget grinned. “Doesn’t letting it out feel better?”

Cogsworth rolled his eyes, and the conversation moved on to less inflammatory subjects. 

A knock came to the door as they finished their meal. “Come in!” Bridget called. 

The same little chambermaid whom she had been comforting earlier that day scuttled in. “Mrs Potts, the Mistress is ringing for you,” she said. 

“Ah, no rest for the wicked,” Cogsworth quipped as Bridget pushed her chair back. “Perhaps one of these days we’ll hire another maid and you can finally keep house without needing to tend to her Highness.”

“That’ll never happen, Henry,” Bridget chuckled. “My lady brought me with her from her own household, and we’ve known each other since we were only girls. So she won’t be rid of me that easily, and I must say none of the other housekeepers we’ve interviewed could ever keep this castle up to the standards I’d expect of them.”

“And so you’ll just muddle along indefinitely?” Cogsworth asked with a frown. 

Bridget shrugged, smiling. “It’s worked for the last ten years,” she said. Placing her napkin on the table, she nodded her thanks to the maid before making her way to Yvonne’s chambers. It took her only a few minutes, and yet by the time Bridget knocked politely on the door the last vestiges of light from outside had completely faded, leaving the castle’s surroundings in darkness. 

“Yes?” Yvonne called from inside, as she always did on these nights. “Who is it?”

“You rang, my lady.” Bridget replied in turn. Without waiting for a reply she turned the knob of the door handle, slipping inside quick as water. 

As was their custom, Yvonne had drawn the curtains of her bedroom tightly shut, so that no flickering candle would betray them if the shutters let out some light accidentally. Yvonne herself was sitting at her desk writing her diary for the day, still fully dressed. She flashed a smile at Bridget as she closed the door behind her and said, “I’ll be two minutes, dearest.”

“Take all the time you need,” Bridget replied. She sat on the end of her bed, letting her fingers trace the quilted seams of the counterpane. It was green, like the linens she’d had in her father’s house; the materials were much finer, however, and the shade was ever so slightly darker. Bridget gently rubbed the pad of her middle finger over one of the many embroidered roses as the scratch of Yvonne’s quill grew faster and louder. 

“Done!” she announced, pushing the book up the desk and fastening her writing equipment away with the speed born of long habit. She pushed her chair back and spun around, so that her skirts hung to one side while her arms draped over the back of the chair. “Bridget, dear, I’ve missed you so much these last few days. Come here?”

“How can I refuse when my lady asks so sweetly?” Bridget smirked, standing up to her full height and padding across the carpet. She rested one hand over Yvonne’s, cradling the back of her neck with the other as she tipped Yvonne’s head back to kiss her. Bridget felt rather than heard her pleased sigh when their lips finally met, the soft plush sounds of their mouths moving soon the only sounds filling the room. She felt Yvonne’s free hand clutch vaguely at her waist before anchoring herself to it and firmly pressing Bridget against the chair. 

They broke apart with a giggle. Bridget ran her hand along the side of Yvonne’s cheek; her hair was showing a few strands of grey, and her face held some wrinkles and secrets it hadn’t before, but it was still the same face she had first come to love eleven years before. 

“I’ve missed you,” Bridget murmured, before bending her head again. They kissed again, the interplay of their tongues causing Yvonne to pull Bridget even closer against the chair as she let out a tiny, satisfied noise in her throat. 

“And I you,” Yvonne replied, pulling away so she could get out the chair. Their hands met again, gravitating towards each other as if they couldn’t help but stay close. “I get a strange little ache in my chest when I can’t be near you, or show you the affection you deserve.” She looped an arm around Bridget’s neck, pulling her down into a kiss all the better because instead of being pressed against a hard chair, she was pressed against the warm length of Yvonne’s body. Bridget wrapped her arms around Yvonne, burying her fingers in the heap of her hair while her other hand ghosted over her spine. She allowed herself to get lost in their kiss for long, easy seconds. 

“I’m here now, my lady,” Bridget smiled when she pulled away. 

Yvonne smiled back at her, her eyes already grown darker with lust. She pushed up on her toes to kiss Bridget again, and they stumbled carelessly back towards the bed. Bridget landed on the edge with a thump, reaching out with one hand to grab onto the bedpost as Yvonne fell forwards into her lap. They took a moment to reposition themselves, softly laughing into each other’s ears. Yvonne was settled on her back almost before she knew what was happening, but Bridget kissed her again before she could ask why. They had settled with Bridget’s leg jammed between Yvonne’s, and they grew distracted for a moment moving against each other futilely through their many layers of fabric. 

“Bridget –” she started. 

“I know, Yvonne,” she replied, peppering kisses and tiny nicks of her teeth against the length of her neck. “We’ll get undressed in a moment, but first . . .”

Bridget pushed up and slid off the bed. She knelt down by Yvonne’s feet, unbuckling her shoes and laying them neatly at the foot of the bed. Yvonne propped herself up on her elbows just in time for Bridget to catch a glimpse of her wide, darkened eyes before she lifted up Yvonne’s skirts and slipped underneath them. 

She could feel the shake of Yvonne’s laughter as she ran her hands up her thighs. “Dearest,” Bridget heard her laugh, “surely you can wait a few minutes until we’re properly undressed?”

Bridget unfastened the garter on one stocking, letting her cool fingers brush against Yvonne’s warm skin as the cuff buckled beneath her fingertips. “No, I can’t,” she murmured, allowing her breath to roll over the junction between Yvonne’s thighs. She was gratified when she ducked her head a little closer and could smell the evidence of her arousal. “From what I can tell, you can’t either,” she smirked. 

She pressed one chaste kiss against the hollow of her inner thigh, noticing the tiny twitch of her hips as she did so, before shuffling backwards, unrolling Yvonne’s stocking as she went. She traced the fingers of her free hand along each inch of bare skin as it was revealed, carefully placing the stocking beside her once it had been fully removed. Bridget began making her way back up again, pressing chaste kisses against the strong bones of Yvonne’s ankle and the length of her calves. She could feel Yvonne let out a shuddering breath as she scraped her teeth along the curve of her inner thigh, tracing over them again with soothing wet kisses a moment later. 

Yvonne let out the smallest of noises in her throat when Bridget skipped over to her other stocking, repeating her pattern of teasing touches and kisses. The minute twitch of her hips had become slight but definite squirming by the time Bridget had worked her back up Yvonne’s other leg. 

“Bridget . . .”

Bridget allowed herself a private smile, shrouded by Yvonne’s skirts. She kissed Yvonne’s thigh again. Nudging one shoulder under Yvonne’s knee and firmly grasping her hips, Bridget pressed her mouth against Yvonne. The sound of a rapidly choked-off gasp made its way to her even through the layers of fabric between them. Bridget circled Yvonne’s bud with her tongue just the way she liked it, the flat of her tongue providing contrast as she licked down to her wet opening and back up again. 

Yvonne’s hips jerked. Bridget pressed down harder against her hips; counterintuitively, this only caused Yvonne to squirm more, but this at least Bridget could prepare for. Wrapped in her little cocoon of skirts and shaking thighs, Bridget had to break away from Yvonne sooner than she would have liked to catch her breath. She pressed her thumb firmly against Yvonne’s bud while her mouth was unoccupied, the shifting of her hips giving Yvonne the stimulation she needed. Pressing back in again, all lips and tongue and gentle hums, Bridget took her time in teasing Yvonne towards completion. It had been too long since they were last together – but not long enough that she wanted to rush through any part of this. 

It felt like almost no time at all had passed before Yvonne’s restless hips began to buck more rhythmically. Bridget flicked her tongue rapidly, the slight ache in her jaw nothing compared to the uncontrollable shaking of Yvonne’s entire body, the soft “oh, oh”s interspersed with Bridget’s name that sounded almost punched out of her as she shuddered through her climax. Bridget felt a soft thud; when she emerged from Yvonne’s skirts, her mouth red and wet and her hair falling down around her, she saw that it had been Yvonne’s head falling back against the mattress. 

“Darling?” Bridget asked quietly. 

“Come up here,” Yvonne whispered hoarsely. 

Bridget obediently crawled up beside Yvonne, where she was promptly kissed half-senseless. Yvonne licked into her mouth, and Bridget groaned around her tongue. 

“I’d like to hear that again,” Yvonne chuckled. “Come on,” she said, grabbing onto Bridget’s thigh. “Kneel over me again, like the last time.”

“Like this?” Bridget asked, although she was already moving so that her knees framed Yvonne’s shoulders. “I’m still fully dressed.”

_ “Now _ who wants to undress,” Yvonne teased, lifting the fabric of Bridget’s skirts up so that she could press her own clever mouth against Bridget. Bridget groaned as her own needs were finally attended to, and said nothing else other than Yvonne’s name and senseless pleading for quite some time.

Later, once they had finally undressed and their bodies could wring out no more pleasure for the night, Bridget sighed as Yvonne lay in her arms. 

“Are you alright?” Yvonne asked quietly, tracing her cool fingers over Bridget’s bare shoulder. 

“Yes,” Bridget said. “It’s just getting late. If I stay here much longer I’ll fall asleep.”

Yvonne ran her finger down the line of Bridget’s arm. She followed the veins down to her elbow, then to her wrist, where her cooling pulse lay. “Stay?” she said quietly. 

Bridget pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “You know I can’t,” she murmured. “If anyone saw . . .”

Yvonne sagged a little. “I know.” She took Bridget’s hand. Bringing it to her mouth, she kissed it; her lips brushing the gold ring that had brought them together in the first place, and which Bridget wore on her ring finger. It was nothing like the silver wedding band that adorned Yvonne’s hand, and yet when Bridget had started to wear it the day of the wedding they had both understood her meaning perfectly. “I just wish . . .”

“I know,” Bridget echoed. She shifted in the bed, and bent to kiss Yvonne goodnight. Although the night was still warm, Bridget felt a chill as she left the bed, and she hurried to slip her shift back on. She redressed quickly; while she could normally slip back to her rooms unseen by any, the castle had been so out-of-sorts that she didn’t trust in her ability to leave Yvonne’s chambers unnoticed. She turned back to Yvonne, still naked in the bed. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, darling,” she said after leaning in again to kiss her.

“Tomorrow,” Yvonne promised. She took Bridget’s hand, pressing another kiss to her knuckles. Her fingers were still cold. Bridget took three steps backwards keeping their hands intertwined. On the fourth, her fingers slipped from Yvonne’s grasp, and she left the room in comfortable silence. 

Bridget walked slowly back to her rooms, her lips still kiss-stung and the place where her thighs joined throbbing slightly from the exertion. The entire castle seemed not just quiet, but still – the only sound she heard was that of her own footsteps padding quietly against the carpet. In fact, not until she was back in her rooms, the door firmly shut and locked behind her, did Bridget hear something that caused a small knot of tension, which she hadn’t noticed was still there, to finally undo itself. 

After weeks of a muggy July, it had finally started to rain.

**Author's Note:**

> well. here we are. i believe this is what we in the writing business call, 'the result of a plot bunny'. 
> 
> i started writing this in july of 2019, and finished it now. this is the longest i've ever taken to write a one-shot, and i can only hope it lives up to the wait. 
> 
> for those who don't know (although, why would you read this if you don't have the context), yvonne is my oc beast's mother in my current batb retelling, ever just the same. i started writing a subtextual last romance between her and mrs bridget potts, which quickly became textual, which quickly became . . . well, this. 
> 
> you can catch me having Feelings about these girls, and the Next Gen belle and eve, over on tumblr
> 
> title is from the Iconique love confession scene in jane eyre


End file.
